You Don't Have To Be Afraid
by littlexkiller
Summary: All Tate has now is the fading memories of Violet and the bored advice of her father. But, he supposes, there are certain things worth living through. And his Violet was just that. The only thing worth living, or dying, or not dying for. Vignettes of Violate alone and together, open to requests. Language warning.
1. She Don't Love Me No More

_**A/N: Inspired by Violet and Contance's dialogue in the episode 'Halloween Part 2', when Tate's mother tells Violet that he's a 'sensitive boy' with 'the soul of a poet, but none of the grit or steel'. Loved that stuff. Please leave a review for me, ya'll know I thrive off your approval. Can't derive much improvement from viewcounts alone.**_

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><p><em>Tate Langdon<em>

Death is one hell of a mask. I feel protected by all its raw power, in its unabashed symbolism painted across my face in all my visions. I wear it as a veil to cover my own human weakness. I bring a promise with me everywhere I go with this veil. A promise to rain down fire and brimstone on the scum stealing space on this Earth.

Violet is so much stronger than me. In life and especially in death. When she ran crying from the basement after seeing Infantata I thought that maybe, finally, she was afraid of something. That she was vulnerable, just like me. But no. She was crying because she felt like I'd betrayed her trust and gone too far. I had gone too far.

Yet for the life of me, all this excess emotion, this churning snowstorm suffocating a burning forest, I cannot see her again. Not until she wants me. Not until she stops telling me to go away, until she stops crying into her father's sweater, until their stupid dog drops dead of sheer exhaustion.

Because I've gone too far.

I think of the shooting now as a past atonement to my present sins. Like I've brought them all to the feet of God in exchange for quiet suffering in a place only slightly apart from my personal Hell. Even with this new revelation, this self-comfort, there are still too many emotions. And try as I do, I cannot separate myself from them. I can't detach myself, no clean break, not anymore.

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><p>I list them for Dr Harmon one by one, giving each the respect they demand.<p>

Angst, for all that I have lost and all the lives I have stolen.

Jealousy, for the boy that lives in my room now that sees how beautiful my Violet is.

Rage, for the universe has conspired against me and timed my untimely death down to the second.

Sadness, for my Violet doesn't want me anymore.

Emptiness, for I have nothing to fill the gap.

All inescapable.

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><p>Ben tells me emptiness isn't a feeling, it's a state of being. I disagree. Because if this... this <em>damage<em> I'm experiencing isn't a feeling, why do I feel it so strongly? So undeniably?

"You don't have to be afraid, Tate. There's nothing that can really hurt us now."

"Yeah, actually, there _is_ something that can hurt me. Violet, goddammit. Violet is hurting me."

Every time I pin some depraved soul to the ground, choke them for every last gasp of air and take their life right out of their begging hands, there is a transfer of power over life. From their hands to mine. It feels like I'm finally taking something for myself, for the greater good. Something Constance can't take away. That alone makes me feel better. Screw Violet anyway. I never deserved her. A sense of acceptance rushes through me like a forgiving breeze on a hot day.

And for the first time in my afterlife, I feel free.


	2. Loneliness Killed The Girl

_**A/N: Well I guess these are vignettes now. Felt like exploring the raw, hardened street urchin side of her. Might have something to do with all the Ghostface Killah I've been listening to, haha.**_

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><p><em>Violet Harmon<em>

There was this one time I got too curious about Tate. I mean, God, those dark brown eyes looked like they could swallow me whole. Not that I'd even mind. So I asked Dad about his sessions with him, and you know what that fucker told me?

"Stay away from him, Vi. He's a very dangerous boy and no good for you."

Laughable, isn't it? Big ol' Doctor Harmon doesn't know how dangerous his own daughter is. I stabbed that bitch Chloe in the leg for talking shit about me, and you can bet your ass I shanked her so good she never opened her whore mouth again. When I told Tate, he didn't laugh it off and call me his 'spooky little girl' like I thought he would. He just listened. He always just sat there, puffed out neat rings of smoke and listened to me. I liked that. I liked it a lot.

He's a smart boy, I know he is. Even if he doesn't act like it. I'll be reading this passsage from _Frankenstein_, explaining the meaning I see, but he'll be like "Nah, Vi. The family symbolises the unity of different characteristic traits he wishes he had. Alternatively, the entire book could all just be one big shit-filled allegory for mental illness. The monster he created would be his own mind, formed with his own two hands."

See? Intellectual fuckin' bastard.

I've been missing him. Way more than I should. Yeah, he raped my mom, sodomised Patrick to death with the thing from the fireplace, shot all those kids. But it doesn't scare me like it used to. Goddamn, dying made me straight-edge. I don't even really smoke anymore. My body doesn't need it. I mean, I'll light up if I get particularly bored, but it doesn't do anything for me, not like it used to. I've got Tate now, or at least the concept of him - that's enough for me.

I know I've already forgiven him. He probably does too, with that beautiful brain of his. All the ghosts in this place have heard me say it before. Say that I've finally gotten to that broken place where I miss him more than I could ever be repulsed by his actions. It used to make me sick to my stomach, my sudden inability to be sickened by him. I like to think that it's not my fault, that he's just too gorgeous and too attractive for his own good, but it's always my fault. I killed myself over him and got myself trapped here. No point in blaming him anymore.

I told him to go away.

It was _me_. All this time I've been pushing the blame onto him, bitching about him with Chad like it really was all his fault. I mean, obviously the people he killed were the direct result of his fault, I just mean... I don't know what I'm trying to say anymore. I lost the need to achieve some kind of higher understanding after I died in that fucking lonely bathtub.

He was there, I know he was. He held me, kissed me, tried to save me, I know – but when you die, you die alone. Always alone. Anything else is just a pretty lie to stop you from ruining the morning announcements at school with your violent suicide. There was a light there, but there was a darkness too. I didn't know what to do, and I guess I waited too long. The house took me back before I could make a choice.

So I don't wait this time around. I choose the closest thing to the light.

"Tate."

He doesn't appear, at first. I think he hasn't heard me.

"_Tate_."

And he's there, blinking down at me with those black holes for eyes, tugging at the threadbare sleeve of his ragged sweater with an impatient hand.

"What do you want, Violet?"

The sound of his voice washes over me like the ocean. I want it to take me away.

"Tate, you know I forgave you a long time ago."

He nods briskly, and I can almost feel him trying to detach himself.

"I still love you," I confess shakily, and Tate's eyes snap onto mine like magnets drawn too close together.

"You don't want to say that, Vi," he warns in a low voice.

"Well it's true-"

"Really? You should probably think about that. If you haven't been thinking about it, that is. You've had – gee, I don't know – the better part of _two years_ to think about it," he spat bitterly, tears pooling in his eternally bloodshot eyes.

"Tate, I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't tell people like me that you love them, Violet. I might do something stupid, like believe you."

"I do, goddammit. I do love you. I always loved you and I never stopped. You think every day I've been ignoring you has been easy for me? You think I wanted to do that? You made it feel like I had no choice!"

"Bullshit! You always had a choice and you _chose_ to die here, for me. You _chose_ to push me away every goddamn time I saw you and... and..."

He rubs angrily at his eyes, wiping away the fat tears that have escaped.

"Violet, it took me two years to get over your rejection. Imagine what your death did to me. Seeing you, holding you, but as a spirit. You didn't even know. I just – I wanted you to be happy. I still do. Go back to the boy upstairs. He'll make you happy."

"_You_ make me happy, Tate. Us, together. I need it to survive. I should've come to you sooner, I know. But I do need you, fuck that other guy. I've got nowhere to go. Nowhere to run or hide. We're here together now, and I think we can work with that."

A tiny smile creeps across his face, digging dimples in his cheeks that haven't appeared for years.

"Yeah," he agrees, "yeah, we can work with that."

I beam up at him and open my arms cautiously, gesturing for him to come closer. The warmth from his body pressing against me in a hug is the first real sensation I've felt since I died. I hum softly against his chest and he kisses the top of my head, just like he used to.

"I missed you," I whisper to him.

"I missed you more," he replies with a smile, running his fingers over my hair.

And for the first time in my afterlife, I feel happy.


	3. Resting In Peace

_**A/N: I'm back! Oh man, I love you guys. Especially the readers of The Baddest Witch In Town (HOLLA, MY TBWITches) out there, thank you so much for reading and messaging and everything you've done for me on this site. Please leave reviews and some lovely requests for me! Enjoy.**_

_**Also you should listen to Lantern on the Lake's 'Ships In The Rain' while reading this. It'll set the tone, and plus - Violet actually plays it, so it'll be like you're really there :)**_

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><p><em>Tate Langdon<em>

She's different now. In a good way. Death has treated my precious Violet well, as odd as it sounds. She used to wrap herself up in layers and layers of cardigans and loose-fitting sweaters, like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. Now she has found some deeper comfort, something that made her listen to everything I've said about body image and self-love. Now she is proud in her beauty, clad in gratuitous lingerie, stalking around the house in the sexiest heels she owns.

I'm proud of her. I'm proud to have her.

I'm different, too. Loving her has mellowed me out like an entire weekend with only a bong for company. Like those flashy new electronic cigarettes she's been stealing from the kid who lives in our room now. Like the expensive European wine owned by his parents. Long gone are my head-banging, wall-punching, coke-blowing days of Nirvana and Pixies. Now they are replaced by the slow-burning soothe of post-modern indie music, Gem Club and Lanterns on the Lake.

We're living the life we always wanted to live. Violet spends the afternoons floating around in the pool on the tenant's inflatable seat, vape pen in a delicate hand and my heart in the other. I spend them reading Mark Z. Danielewski in the attic, idly rolling the ball back and forth between myself and Beau.

Moira stopped bothering the owner of the house when she found out he saw her as an old woman.

"The loyal bastard. Loves his wife too much," she'd commented drily.

She had stopped bothering me too after Violet arrived for the first time.

Guess I just loved her too much from that moment on.

'Ships In The Rain' is cooing softly from Violet's phone, beckoning me to the poolside. She knows what the song makes us feel, and she knows it'll bring me to her. I peel off my sweater and my shorts, wading into the gently rippling depths beside her. Sombre grey clouds rumble overhead, and rain begins to sprinkle over us. Grinning, she makes room for me on the inflatable, and we lay together in silence.

And for the first time in my afterlife, I feel at peace.


End file.
